Half of a Life
by mgowriter
Summary: House isn't doing very well eight years after his release from prison. When he is finally found by Wilson, will he accept his friend's help?
1. A stranger in a strange place

**mgowriter's notes**: I've been kind of obsessed with the aftermath of House-in-jail plots, so here is another one! This story is slightly AU and heavy on House/Wilson. If you like it, you might also enjoy my other similarly themed House story, "Starting Over."

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**Chapter 1: A stranger in a strange place**

James Wilson stepped into the cool night air, loosening the silk tie around his neck. He sighed in relief as it uncoiled from its tight hold. Fitting, that it was a gift from the most recent ex-Mrs. Wilson. When she gave it to him three months ago for his forty-fifth birthday, she told him that the color blue made people more inclined to believe in an open and welcoming personality; a good color for someone who informed people they were dying of cancer every day. It had worked for her on the witness stand many times. You could dress up the toughest, most heavily tattooed gang member in a baby blue, button up shirt and somehow, he just felt more honest and down-to-earth to the jury. Until a minute ago, the tie felt like it was literally trying to choke him. He drew a slow hand into his hair, not caring about its usually well-groomed nature. It was the city. It was getting to him. Whose great idea was it to have a leukemia conference in Las Vegas, anyway? This is how you tell a nine-year-old kid that he's dying. Now, go have fun at the slots?

Wilson glanced down at his watch. 9:05 p.m. The streets around him were brilliantly lit against the night sky. Tourists, partygoers, gamblers and drunks were just starting to come out for the night. A person dressed in a rhinestone explosion—who looked like a woman with a muscular build, but on second thought may well have been a man not too long ago—walked by and gave him a wink. Were those rhinestones in her eyelashes? He shook his head. He needed to get out of here. The walk back to his hotel was more than a few blocks, but he decided the fresh air would clear his head. He was dreading the "Pain Rating System—Time for a Revision?" talk he had to give tomorrow morning.

Buttoning his suit, he picked up his pace against the chilly wind. The orange walk sign blinked ahead and he hurried to catch the light. As he looked up, he caught a moving figure from the corner of his eye. A second later, he unceremoniously crashed into the approaching man.

"I'm so sorry," Wilson started to apologize. He saw that the man had been using a cane, and bent down to retrieve it. As he held the cane from his hand, a pair of blue eyes that he never thought he would see again seared into his.

For a second, he saw his own look of surprise mirrored in the other man's eyes, but the cane was quickly ripped from his hands as the man hurried on his way.

. . .

"House?" Wilson's voice was barely a whisper. He looked at the retreating figure in disbelief. Was it a hallucination? He tried to lift himself off the ground, but for a few seconds the muscles in his legs refused to work. Doctor James Wilson, boy wonder oncologist, has finally cracked. The headline flashed in his mind.

The walk sign turned red, and cars started to honk from both sides. He scrambled to find his voice. "House," he managed to say aloud. "House!" He finally stood and closed the distance between them, grabbing the other man by his sleeve.

The man pulled away roughly. "You have the wrong guy. I don't know you." His expression was set in stone.

Wilson stared, dumbfounded. It was House. He had the same messy hair, unkept stubble, same forehead, same chin, same way he leaned on the cane, and the same brighter than blue eyes, looking anywhere but at his own. It had been eight years since he'd seen his best friend, but he knew without a doubt this was him.

"House." He didn't know what else to say.

"Look," the other man replied. "I'm not who you think I am. If you don't stop bothering me, I'm going to call the cops. They have a tendency to favor cripples over non-cripples. Clark county prison is not a place you want an overnight stay in, especially for a guy wearing a two thousand dollar suit." He looked down at his cane. "Get lost."

. . .

Wilson stared at the man that he had known for more than two decades. House's hand gripped the worn cane with more force than he remembered. His limp was worse; he favored his right leg more than he wanted to let on. His jacket hung loosely around his frame.

"Where the hell have you been for the last two years?" Wilson demanded to his friend's back. "Where did you go when you got out of jail? I was there. I waited for you. They said you left…" He felt the bravado drain from his voice. He felt sick.

"House, you son of a bitch. Why are you doing this? Do you have any idea how long I've been looking for you?" His voice caught on the last sentence, exposing his failed attempt to keep things together. He bit his tongue, hard. People were staring. Don't break down here, not now. This isn't the place.

He couldn't help it. Later, looking back at the scene, he would rationalize it as his body's way of avoiding the side effects of shock. It was a medical decision. He let himself crumple to the ground, and the world slowly spun itself back to normal. He ran his hand through his hair for the second time. He wanted to look up, but couldn't. House wasn't going to be there when he did, and he wasn't going to be sure if any of it was real. People were already starting to talk at the hospital. His obsession with finding the long lost, mythical diagnostician Dr. House wasn't healthy. They were worried. He needed to find a nice woman and settle down again. Even Cuddy was starting to hint at it.

. . .

The shoes came into his field of vision before anything else. They were loosely laced Nike's, blue and yellow stripes with a silver trim along the bottom. He looked up. House's face was a mixture of anger and annoyance.

"You idiot. How much have you spent on Lucas?"

Wilson smiled, widely. "Probably enough to buy a decent sports car."

House scowled in disapproval. "He charges double what he's worth by principle. You could've talked him down to an SUV, easy. Better yet, you should've just given it to me. Think of all the hookers I could've been rolling around town with."

"I'd been glad to," Wilson said. "But oh, wait, I haven't heard from you since you were incarcerated for manslaughter, a crime that you didn't commit, but plead guilty to anyway. Didn't get the memo on where you planned to disappear to after you got out."

. . .

House stared down at Wilson. His last memory of them together was from behind iron bars; him in an orange jumpsuit and Wilson in a similar outfit as the one he had on now. _I'm not taking any more visitors_. Those were the last words he said, more than eight years ago.

Wilson was older now, with more worry lines than he remembered. The hair at his temples had turned salt and pepper grey. House didn't know why he was surprised by the fact. Everyone changes, gets older. He looked into dark brown eyes that were full of questions he didn't know how to answer. If he had any sense of responsibility, he would walk away and never look back.

"You look like a psych case sitting there," he finally said. "Get up before you get us both arrested."

Wilson stood up carefully, testing his balance.

"Come on, I'm hungry." House motioned for him follow.

"Where are we going?"

"To the place where carnivoric dreams come true."


	2. Knowledge is not enough

**Chapter 2: Knowledge is not enough**

Any customer sitting at the bar of Salinas Saloon who witnessed the two men enter would've said they were the strangest pair that came through the doors that night. The older man appeared first. He had on a worn leather jacket that was a couple of sizes too big, and a constant scowl etched into his features. The younger man that followed looked like an attorney in the middle of a meeting to sign a shady deal. He peered from side to side, adjusted his suit, and was altogether extremely out of place.

House led them to a seat in the back, hidden from most of the establishment. They didn't wait long before a waitress approached with drinks. She placed a glass of water in front of Wilson, and turned to House.

"We ran out of the Belgian brew yesterday. Kenny's already getting shit for fucking up the order, so I don't wanna hear anything from you, too." She placed a glass of beer in front of House. "It's the next best thing."

Wilson was taken aback by the greeting. The woman standing before them was…stunningly beautiful. In her mid-thirties, she had almost perfectly crafted features. Dark brown eyes, slender nose, and full, soft pink lips. Her long, wavy hair ended just above the waist. She wore a figure hugging black t-shirt that matched the color of the apron over her jeans. Her name tag read "Chloe."

"House, you're giving up the hermit life? Who's your friend?"

"Wilson," House replied shortly.

Chloe studied Wilson with open curiosity before extending her hand. "Nice to meet you."

Wilson did the same. "You too, Chloe."

"Do you guys…work together?"

House cut in before Wilson could speak. "Wilson's a real doctor. Lots of money. He'd be a great catch as a dream husband, but judging by the lines on his left ring finger, he just went through wife number four." He paused and looked at Wilson. "Or is it five? And his rebound rate averages about six months." He returned his gaze to Chloe. "Just trying to save you some time. Can't afford to waste any more off of that ticking biological clock, can we?"

Chloe didn't bat an eye. "Well, you must be someone from House's mysterious past. He only gets defensive like this when people ask about his life before coming to Vegas."

Wilson found himself surprised by the woman for the second time in so many minutes. She was more of a sparring partner to House than anyone he had ever met before.

House sighed in discontent. "Don't you have other customers to annoy?" He rubbed his right leg under the table.

Chloe pulled out her order pad and a pen tucked behind her ear. "What will it be, gentlemen?"

"Two burgers. The usual for me. No tomatoes and cheddar on the second. Fries, and a Corona light for Wilson. He only drinks tasteless beers at conferences for dying bald kids. It's a fascinating sort of self punishment, if you think about it."

Chloe gave Wilson a funny look. "Coming right up."

. . .

Wilson turned to House, eyebrows raised. "She seems…nice."

House grunted noncommittally. He looked around their corner of the restaurant, at the small scratches in the table, and finally back at Wilson. "You're not going to ask me how I've been?"

Wilson pretended to think about his words. "That was one of the few questions I had in mind. How about this one to start. What the _hell_, House? You vanish off the face of the earth without an explanation to anyone? Do you know what Cuddy went through? She still thinks it's her fault that you went to jail. Do you know what your mother went through trying to find you?" The unasked question hung in the air between them. _ Do you know what I went through?_

House rubbed his leg. "That's more than one question."

"Take your pick."  
He shook his head. "I'm done picking sides. No more differentials."

Wilson breathed out slowly, willing himself to remain calm.

"How did you know I was at a conference?"

House's body relaxed with the change in direction. "You hate Vegas. You've been here twice, once with your family when you were fourteen and once for your second bachelor party, with me. Both times ended in "absolute disaster," by your own words. You'd never come here by choice. You're also wearing a light gray suit with a blue tie. You only wear that during the second day of a conference."

Wilson blinked in surprise. "Is that why you're here?"

"Well I can't bring you into an establishment like this with a red tie. That'd be crossing party lines."

"No," Wilson said. "Are you here in Las Vegas because you knew there'd be a next to impossible chance that I would ever come here?"

House grew quiet for a moment. He looked up from the spot he had resumed staring at on the wooden table.

"Yeah, that's why."

. . .

Their orders came and the two men ate in silence. Wilson had a thousand more questions he didn't know how to ask. So instead, he stared. He took in the thin, gaunt frame. He noticed the prominent blue veins under skin that hadn't seen the sun in months. He wanted to reach out and touch the man sitting in front of him, to feel that this was real, that it was House and he finally found him. But he knew how House would react. The older man would pull away, saying something like no, prison hadn't turned him gay but it looks like Wilson finally played out to what he had guessed all along. That was House. He couldn't take physical comfort, and didn't understand what it would mean to Wilson. So Wilson remained in his seat. He took a sip of his beer and placed it onto the table with a heavy thud.

"You didn't leave any paper trails. You don't even have a bank account. Nothing."

"No."

"You really didn't want to be found."

"No."

"Why?"

Chloe came with the check before House could speak.

"Have a good night, boys. I'll see you tomorrow, House."

To Wilson's surprise, House pulled out a twenty and a ten dollar bill from the remains of what used to be a wallet, and left both on the table.

"House, you owe me an explanation."

House stood unsteadily from the table. He could've tricked anyone else into believing the white knuckled grip on his cane was a sign of anger, or a statement in the making. Wilson, however, had known the man too long to be fooled.

"House—"

"Not here." House moved toward the door, favoring his right leg heavily.

Wilson followed him outside. House had already stopped a taxi on the street. He looked over at Wilson. "Climb in." The younger man didn't argue.


	3. Change that is impossible

**mgowriter's notes**: This is the danger of writing one chapter at a time, because you guys are smarter than me! You ask questions and make comments about the story that I haven't even thought of! Now I must try and rise to the challenge…*sighs*

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**Chapter 3: Change that is impossible**

The rougher part of Las Vegas really wasn't all that far away from the shining lights of the strip. Prostitutes and dealers drifted through the streets. Instead of tourists with maps and souvenir shops, silent men stood in the shadows. Wilson and House arrived at an old brick building that looked like it was built when Las Vegas was first starting to emerge from the desert. The yellowing white paint on the window shutters told a different story of what this place might have been a long time ago. House paid the taxi driver and fished out his keys.

He lived in the basement, one floor down. It took him a full minute to get down a flight of stairs, eight steps in total. Wilson kept his mouth shut. He didn't offer to help, acting as if everything was normal. House appreciated that, at least. He unlocked the door to B2, knowing this was a bad idea. He was delaying the inevitable, making it harder for the both of them. But he was selfish, and he told himself that he deserved this after so many years, if only for a few hours. Wilson followed him in.

House's apartment was…depressing, at best. The only window in the living room was at shoulder height, level with the ground outside. There was a red futon in the middle of the room, unmade from last night's sleep. It sat next to a coffee table and a small TV that stood against the wall. A wooden table with two chairs completed the rest of the living room.

The small kitchen in the adjacent room was painted in 1950's pastel green. A stove and refrigerator filled up the space of a closet that looked as if it had ever been used. Another door stood at the far end of the hall.

The place smelled of stale tobacco that was trying to mask something else. Three boxes of leftover pizza were scattered next to the makeshift bed. Empty beer and liquor bottles lined the rest of the circle, making the futon look strangely like the center of a sacrificial ceremony.

Wilson scanned the room again after his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. Something was missing. A piano, a guitar, or at least a keyboard. He didn't need the TV, but he needed music. Wilson's eyes landed on the ipod laying on the futon, next to the pillow. No, that wasn't enough. He needed to make music.

. . .

House disappeared down the hall to the bathroom. He closed the door with a heavy sigh, leaning against it for support. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled in sharp, ragged gasps. It felt as if a hot piece of coal was burning through his leg from the inside. He looked down at his watch. Twenty more minutes; the thought felt like an eternity.

House positioned himself over the sink and peered into the mirror. The dampness that he felt against his skin extended to the beads of perspiration on his forehead and the clammy grasp of his hands against the cool porcelain. He wiped away the sweat, noting the sickly grey pallor of his skin. House scowled at the image. He opened the cabinet door to find four neat rows of empty orange bottles standing guard. He grabbed two of the nearest pill bottles and shook them in his hand, listening for the familiar rattle. Only silence greeted his efforts.

. . .

Wilson heard a mumbled curse from down the hallway and moments later, the sound of plastic crashing against tile. Before he could call out, a squeak from his right startled him and he looked quickly in that direction. A wire cage with a flurry of activity inside sat on top of a small bookcase. He lowered himself until he was face to face with the beady eyes of a brown rat.

"Stevie Wonder," House said by way of introduction, from across the room. He limped slowly to the cage. A couple of sunflower seeds appeared from his pocket. The rat, smelling the treat, scrambled over to his hand.

"Where did you find him?" Wilson asked.

"He was here when I moved in." House pet the rat with two fingers as it ate.

Wilson watched with curiosity. "He's…blind?"

House sighed, leaning heavily against the wall. "Don't be so literal. He likes soul music. It's how we connect."

. . .

Not feeling like explaining the complex relationship between himself and the rat, House made his way carefully to the kitchen. The jerk of the refrigerator door jostled its contents and glass bottles rattled against each other in protest. He pulled out two bottles of beer, sat down at the table and willed his hand to stop shaking. He looked at his watch. Late, again. He looked back at Wilson, who was staring at his leg. Dammit.

"What are you taking for the pain?"  
"Oldie but goodie," House replied flippantly, willing himself not to rub his right leg.

Wilson seemed surprised. "I thought you went through detox in prison."

"I did. Twice. Didn't take, I guess."

"I don't have my prescription pad with me, but I could make a call to the pharmacy."

House closed his eyes. This was a mistake. He should've kept on walking.

"How was he?" he willed himself to say out loud.  
Wilson shook his head. "You're changing the subject. How was who?"  
"Steve McQueen."

"How did you know—"

"Either you took him in or you let him starve to death in my apartment. You're not the starving type."

Wilson placed his hands at his hips. At least House's powers of deduction were alive and well. "He lived a long and happy life. Fancy cheese, extra large wheel, filtered water, and the biggest cage a rat could dream of. He told me to tell you goodbye, when he knew he wasn't going to make it."

House smiled at the image. "You spoiled him."

"Well," Wilson replied, "he was mine for the spoiling."

. . .

Wilson sat down at the table. After a moment's hesitation, he carefully extended his arm across the table. His hand reached House's wrist and placed two fingers on his radial artery. He was surprised at the warmth of House's skin.

"What are you doing?"

"Checking your pulse."

"Get away from my pulse." Despite his words, House stayed still.

Wilson sighed, removing his hand. "Irregular heartbeat, borderline tachycardia. House, we both know you're in a lot of pain. Just let me make the call—"

"No." House's voice came out louder than he intended. "We're done with that. You're done enabling me."

Wilson was silent.

House took a swig from his bottle. He closed his eyes. "You should go."

"House—" He was interrupted by two loud knocks at the door.

House stood and limped towards the door without looking back. He opened the door. A kid, probably no older than 18, rushed past him into the room.

. . .

"House, my man, what's happening? Long time no see. Did you get a look at Miss McNasty that just walked out of B4? Shit. I wouldn't touch that with a twelve inch dick." He was dressed in an oversized jacket and low hanging jeans, and talked a hundred words too fast a minute.

"Too bad your three incher can't reach that far," House replied, smiling despite himself.

"Ouch. Dr. House. The doctor is in the house." He made his way to the fridge, opened it, but decided against a drink.

"Alright, cut the crap," House said. "I'm not in the mood tonight. Where's the stuff?"

"Wait wait wait wait," the kid said. "What's the hurry? Who's the new guy?" He sauntered over to where Wilson sat. "What's up man, I'm Charlie Cash but you can call me fastforward, flash hash, CC, get it?" He shook Wilson's hand before he could reply. "You need a stash, a hookup, anything you want, I'm your man."

"Uh…thanks." Wilson replied. "James Wilson."

Charlie took a step back. "What, like _Wilson_ Wilson?"

Wilson looked at House. House stared back. He didn't remember mentioning anyone from Princeton to Charlie.

"Do I know you?" Wilson asked.

"Not really," Charlie starts. "But get this. So House gets like crazy drunk one night, right, I mean, more drunk than usual, right? And before he passes out, he starts seeing some fucked up shit or something because he starts talking to thin air. He says 'Wilson, what are you doing here?' So I ask him, who the fuck is Wilson, and why are you talking to somebody that isn't there. And then House points," Charlie mirrors the movement, "and says, 'he's my best friend. He's standing right there.' So I say, why haven't you ever talked about him before? And he says—"

"That's enough." House's tone was sharp, surprising both Charlie and Wilson. He didn't remember the conversation. "Charlie. What do you have for me?"

"All right, all right. I'm just trying to make friends."

Charlie pulled out a paper bag from his jacket pocket and spilled the contents onto the table. There were about eight different pill bottles and some folded up pieces of paper.

House limped over to the table, wincing with each step. He picked up some bottles to look at the prescriptions, and opened one of the paper slips. It contained two beige pills. He looked over at Charlie.  
"Where's the Vicodin?"

Charlie was quiet for the first time since he stepped through the door. "Look, House, that's all he had. He said it was a slow week." He looked apologetic. "But hey, I got you that anti-whatever shit you've been wanting for like a month. That's some good shit." He pointed to the bottle labeled "Azithromycin."

House gripped his left hand into a fist. "That's impossible. Torres has never been dry before. He has a big business. Steady merchandise. That's why I deal with him."

Charlie looked down at something on the floor. "I didn't go to Torres this week."

House turned on him. "Why the hell not?"

"He was hot at me, okay? He said some cops came over and questioned him. That bastard didn't believe me when I said I didn't have anything to do with it. So I had to go to Parker."

"Parker is an idiot," said House behind gritted teeth.

"Look, House, I'm sorry, man." Charlie pulled out a bottle from a different pocket. "I was on him for like half an hour. He said this'll take this edge off."

"Valium?" House clenched his hand around the bottle. His leg screamed at him. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me." Charlie lowered his head for the second time. From where Wilson sat, he almost looked like a schoolboy waiting for punishment.

House sat down with a heavy grunt. He would have to pay Torres a visit himself tomorrow. Ignoring Wilson's questioning gaze, he popped open the bottle prescribed for "Mrs. Elizabeth Holland" and dry swallowed two pills.

House took another drink from his beer. He fished out a bottle from his own pocket and handed it to Charlie. "No more Vicodin, no more deal. That's going to last you exactly one week."

Charlie smiled, eagerly pocketing the pills. "Yeah, no problem House, you know I'm your man. Same time next week. Ciao, baby. Charlie out."


	4. Repentance in unlikely places

**mgowriter's notes**: shout out to mgohusband for helping me turn this chapter around. He has the greatest ideas.

Edit: I forgot to mention this the first time. I tried to keep the swear words in this chapter to a minimum, but there are two that I had to keep. You've been warned!

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**Chapter 4: Repentance in unlikely places**

The silence that filled the room after Charlie's exit was almost as loud as the younger man's presence. Wilson was the first to break it.

"You gave him your part of the deal even though he fell through on his. You're a lousy drug dealer."

House sighed. "I gave him lithium. He thinks it's a new street drug. It doesn't work if you skip a week."

"You're treating him for bipolar disorder? Why?"

"I prayed to Saint Raphael and he told me Jesus would come if I could just save this one kid."

"Don't try to trivialize it. You were caring for him."

"Lithium is cheap," House said with disgust. "If I really cared, I would mix in an anticonvulsant. But I miss the spontaneity and excitement of not knowing when the next seizure is going to strike. So, no anticonvulsant for him."

Wilson shook his head. "I don't believe you. You're doing this on purpose. You're trying to heal him. It's a good thing, House, nothing to be ashamed of."

House scowled at his words. "I needed a runner. He was the cheapest option at the time so he got the job. Once again, your overly-romanticized view of the world comes to the wrong conclusion."

Wilson opened his mouth to object but a knock at the door caught their attention.

"Go away," House said loudly. His surprise at the responding silence lasted only a second, before it burst open with enough force to splinter the wooden frame.

. . .

Two men broke through, armed with .45 caliber pistols. The first intruder had the physique of someone who had popped too many steroids. His over-sized arms were covered with a variety of tattoos, the most noticeable one of a bulldog baring sharp canines, chewing on a gigantic bone. The overhead light gleamed off his perfectly shaven head as he spoke, giving off a perverse halo effect.

"Who the fuck is House?" he spat, looking between the two inhabitants of the room.

"We're all booked for the day," House said carefully. The two men that walked in weren't the normal thugs he was used to seeing around the neighborhood. "Come back tomorrow or make an appointment."

His statement didn't sit well with the intruder, who grabbed the front of his shirt and dumped him roughly onto the floor. The heavily tattooed man aimed his gun so the muzzle was inches away from his temple.

"Hey!" Wilson said, as the second man, shorter and slightly less muscular, forced him into a kneeling position on the floor.

"You killed my brother," the first intruder breathed into House's face. His eyes were wild, housing an anger that threatened his control.

"Who are you again?" asked House.

"Bone," said the man.

"Brother of Bone…" House pretended to think it over. "Nope, doesn't ring a bell."

"His name's T-Man," said Bone, who pressed the gun against House's scalp. "Came here yesterday after he got shot. You took the bullets out, and he dies four hours later. How're you gonna explain that, Doc?"

"T-Man," repeated House with realization. The twenty year old kid who wouldn't stop screaming for revenge as he was bleeding out. His blood, still staining the floor of his apartment. House noted the slight movement of the man's index finger onto the trigger of the pistol. His mind scrambled for an idea, a way out. He had minutes, or less, before things turned ugly. His focus shifted to Wilson, who had his hands on the back of his head. Wilson's eyes stared back into his, asking him the question he couldn't answer. He should've never looked back. He should've kept on walking. It was a test, and he failed. Now he was going to pay a price he couldn't afford.

"The resemblance is striking," House finally said to Bone. He straightened himself to a kneeling position, wincing as he shifted the weight off his right leg. "I told him he had to go to the hospital to get the rest of the shrapnel pieces out, or he'd fill up with blood from the inside. I take it he didn't go?"

"You know he couldn't do that."

"Well if he chose to go home and die you can't blame that on—" House finished the rest of his sentence with a grunt, as Bone's fist connected with his gut.

"Stop!" Wilson shouted, only to receive the same punishment from his guard.

"Look," House said with false calamity. "This is between you and me, right? Why the crowd? "

Bone caught onto his words quickly. He gave Wilson another look. "Who's your friend, Doc?"

House stared up at Bone, his blue eyes unwavering.

"Wouldn't want to see his brain splattered on the walls, would you?"

He didn't wait for an answer, as he picked Wilson up by his shoulders and slammed his knee into Wilson's diaphragm. A second later, his gun connected with the left side of Wilson's skull.

House rose from the floor, but was forced back down by Bone's accomplice. His gaze shifted to his right. Wilson was on his hands and knees, wheezing for breath. Blood poured out from the cut just above his left eye. _Wilson's blood_. His brain told him to look away; screamed at him to do the right thing, but his eyes lingered for a few more seconds before he forced them back onto Bone.

"What do you want?"

Bone's lips contorted into a smile.

"I want you to watch me take your little fairy friend's life. An eye for an eye, right?"

He wasn't joking. The smile on his face confirmed it.

"Fuck you, Bone," said House, thinking fast. "Your brother was the real fairy. I couldn't keep his hands off me when he was here yesterday."

The punch to his gut was almost immediate. He felt his body rise upward as Bone's hand clenched tightly around his throat. Strong fingers dug into his trachea, cutting off desperately needed air.

"You're gonna regret you ever said that, Doc." There was a frenzied look in Bone's eyes as a knife emerged from his pocket and the four-inch blade engaged with a snap. He dragged the blade against House's throat, angled so the sharp edge barely missed cutting into skin.

"I heard you have a bum leg; can't walk too good." He paused, looking into House's eyes with his own the color of steel. "It's not this one—" the knife dug into scarred flesh with a sickening sound "—is it?"

. . .

Pain spread into every fiber of House's leg. It felt as if a thousand shards of broken glass had found the damaged muscle and forced themselves in. They expanded into a throbbing fire that blazed from within. It was a new sensation, not like the slow, familiar burn but equally as torturous. Bone twisted the blade, forcing House to choke on the last of his breath. The grip on his throat tightened until white spots appeared in his vision. He had seconds before blacking out.

"I guess it is," said Bone with satisfaction. He felt House's hand start to relax and loosened his grip. "Not so fast. You don't get off that easy."

House choked again on his breath, struggling to inhale. It took him seconds to breathe, inhale, breathe again. Each muscle spasm left his leg in agony. Somewhere in his med school years, he had seen a video of a live amputation—a grainy black and white picture where the patient screamed in silent torment. Now he knew what it felt like.

House looked up to see Bone's gun again pointed at Wilson's head. "Wait," he rasped, his voice sounding alien. "I have money. Five grand."

Bone raised his eyebrows. "Where?"

"The freezer, in the back."

Bone crossed the room and ripped out a cardboard box advertising ice cream treats from the freezer. He dumped out the contents to reveal a sealed plastic bag with small ice crystals lining the outside. A stack of hundred dollar bills fell out as he emptied its contents.

After a moment's consideration, he pocketed the money with a smile. "Looks like it's your friend's lucky day," he said as he turned toward House. "But not yours." He aimed the gun at House's chest and in the same motion, pulled the trigger.


	5. Absolution, for the way home

**mgowriter's notes**: This story ended up miles from where I thought it would go, which is awesome because I'm a religious freak when it comes to outlining. Seriously, I love outlining.

Although I left myself a little strand of rope at the end, this will probably stay complete. Thank you all for reading!

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**Chapter 5: Absolution, for the way home**

"House."

Wilson's voice broke through the haze and with it, came the piercing clarity of pain. He felt hands on his shoulders, then pressed firmly on his leg.

"House, can you hear me?"

He opened his eyes, not remembering ever closing them. Dark brown eyes stared into his, full of worry.

He swallowed, forcing saliva down his bruised throat. "Wilson," he finally said.

"Jesus, House." Wilson breathed in relief. "I thought I lost you."

"What happened?" House's voice emerged as a whisper. He cleared his throat, wincing against the painful vibration.

"You were shot."

House closed his eyes again. The pain was all-encompassing, spreading upward from the wound in his leg and threatening to choke off his feeble attempts at breathing. "I should be dead. What happened?"

"He missed. The bullet hit your side. There's an exit wound. Two inches to the left and…" Wilson's voice trailed off. "I…didn't see at first. I thought it went into your chest cavity. He…they ran when they heard sirens, but no one came. House, we need to get to a hospital."

House shook his head. "Can't."

"What?"

"I've violated every one of my parole conditions," said House. "They'll arrest me." He grunted with the last of his words, as blood oozed out from under Wilson's hands and the younger man applied more pressure. The pain overwhelmed every thought that tried to break through, clawing for his attention. It was the only thing he could focus on.

"You need sutures. This isn't going to clot on its own."

House gritted his teeth. "I need…morphine."

Wilson stared in the direction of House's gaze, at the closed door down the hallway.

"Where do you keep it?"

"Top of the metal cabinet, yellow box."

Wilson replaced House's hand with his on the still-bleeding wound. "Keep pressure on it," he said, as he scrambled toward the bedroom door.

. . .

Wilson blinked against the bright lights of the room. As he took in his surroundings, he blinked again to make sure he wasn't witnessing an illusion. House's "bedroom" was a ten by twelve foot space that was a cross between the back of an ambulance and a surgical suite.

A glaring white fluorescent light hung in the center of the room, illuminating everything in sharp detail. The centerpiece of the room, an ambulance gurney, stood directly underneath it. The perimeter of the room was lined with an assortment of medical equipment. A new, state-of-the-art defibrillator stood next to a small autoclave that had served its best days decades ago. Various instruments and medications occupied the small shelf space on the adjacent wall. Wilson finally spotted the metal cabinet in a corner, and hurried to grab the yellow box that lay on top.

House was visibly trembling as Wilson knelt beside him. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

"Hang on," said Wilson as he quickly prepared the syringe. He drew the clear liquid from its vial.

Wilson's hands were half-way up House's sleeve when he saw the three pinpoint marks on the skin, centered on the vein at the crook of his arm. Two were faded and almost healed. One was fresh, still dark red from the injection not more than a day ago.

He looked up at House. The older man stared back. The pain was visible in his eyes.

Wilson's eyes returned to House's arm. The marks were still there, undeniable in their implication. "It's going to take a couple of minutes," he finally said, as he inserted the needle into the vein and depressed the plunger.

House nodded. He felt a tingling sensation at the injection site. Warm slivers of relief began to trickle up his arm. His breaths slowed, until he was able to inhale without the small movement causing pain.

Confident that the morphine was doing its job, Wilson disappeared back into the bedroom. He returned with a handful of instruments.

. . .

Minutes passed. House felt the full onset of the morphine as he watched Wilson's fingers move efficiently with the sutures, placing ten in total. Neither man said a word.

"It's not what you think," he spoke first.

Wilson continued his work. He moved to the wound on House's side.

"Sometimes the Vicodin supply dips too low and I have to use a supplement. I'm not on the sweet stuff, as they say."

Wilson placed the last piece of tape to hold the gauze in place. He finally looked up.

"What the hell are you doing here, House? What is all that stuff in there? You're running an ER stop for thugs out of your apartment?" He shook his head. "I can't believe I didn't see this sooner. The signs were right in front of me. Chloe asking if we worked together and you telling her I was a real doctor. Charlie with his deliveries. And Bone? His brother? You were almost killed. _We_ were almost killed."

"An ex-con with a gimp leg in Vegas," House replied. "You're right; I should've gotten an office job and made friends at the water cooler. I really screwed this up."

"If they catch you doing this, practicing without a license…they're going to send you back to jail. For a long time."

"Just trying to contribute to society. You know, do good, help others. Isn't that what every good Hippocratic-Oath-spewing doctor does?"

"Bullshit, House. Trauma? You hate this stuff. There are no puzzles here; nothing to solve. It's a glorified version of the clinic. Why are you punishing yourself? What are you running away from?"

"I started a new life," House replied angrily. "If you can't accept that, then maybe you should've kept on walking tonight."

"What kind of a life is this?"

When House refused to answer, Wilson exhaled deeply. "You need to get the leg looked at. The knife could've done a lot of damage—"

"You should go," said House, before he could finish.

"That guy is going to come after you once he finds out you're still alive. You can't stay here."

"I can handle myself."

"Yeah? And when the morphine wears off? What are you going to do, then?"

"I said I can handle myself."

Wilson stood with the intention of removing himself from the situation, but didn't get far before turning back. "You're gonna end up in a wheelchair, you stubborn sonofabitch; addicted to morphine, if you're not already."

House placed his head back down on the floor. He waited for the burst of outrage, but it never came. Because Wilson was right, only he forgot the word "dead." _You're gonna end up in a wheelchair or dead._ He shook his head. The morphine combined with the Valium earlier were starting to fog his thinking.

"I'm tired, Wilson," House said to the beige, smoke-stained ceiling. "I need to sleep this off."

Wilson positioned himself so he was in House's view.

"Come back to Princeton with me," he said softly. It was a useless plea, but he had to say it. When House didn't answer, he seated himself heavily into the nearest wooden chair.

. . .

"I disappeared because everything I touch gets spoiled, rots, and dies." House's words were quiet. "Every relationship I've ever had ends up like that. I couldn't do that to you. I was already doing it to you. You were the one thing…" he paused, trailing off. "You were the one thing that I hadn't already messed up in my life. I had to leave. I can't go back."

"You think leaving didn't mess me up?" Wilson countered. "You think I was better off with you gone? Think again, my friend, because you're woefully wrong on both accounts."

House turned toward Wilson. "You remarried. You have a successful practice. You're publishing on a regular basis."

"You've been spying on me?" Wilson asked.

House shrugged. "Most of it is public information. Everyone has a right to it."

"Okay, how about this for public information?" Wilson began to pace the room. "I just divorced my fourth wife. The papers aren't finalized so there's no record of it in the system. I'm thinking about leaving the hospital and the practice of medicine. I don't particularly enjoy doing research, but it allows me to get away from the dying patients who look at me every day like I can make a difference in their lives and ease their suffering. I can't, House. I never could. I can only sit there and hold their hand as they die. One after the other. It's an endless line. I can barely make it through the day myself. What business do I have telling others how to die?"

Wilson turned away from House. He ran a shaking hand through his hair. There was a long pause.

When House spoke again, the regret was unmistakable in his voice. "I can't go back to who I used to be. I'm sorry, Wilson."

"You can't hide here forever," Wilson replied. "It's killing you, literally, figuratively, mentally. Take your pick."

"I'm a bad person."

"Give yourself a little credit, House. It takes two people to mess up a relationship."

"I'm a bad friend."

"You're right," said Wilson. "You are, sometimes. But most times, you're the only person that understands me and it's the same the other way around. You think you were punishing yourself all these years? You were punishing a lot more people along the way. I thought you were smarter than this."

House sighed deeply. Wilson's words made sense, but there was something more important. Eight years. He couldn't go back and destroy everything he tried so hard to preserve.

Wilson's face emerged in his field of vision, blocking out the scuff marks on the ceiling. There were more wrinkles around the eyes than House remembered. The bright hazelnut coloring was muted, weighed down with too much worry.

"I'm taking you home," said Wilson. His voice was firm, but his expression was far from it.

Eight years. Was it enough? Or was he lying to himself all this time? Because there was only one truth. Everybody lies. Had he really changed? Could he really change? House closed his eyes. He didn't know anymore.

"Harboring a fugitive from justice—it's not you, Jimmy."

"I always wanted to live on the wild side."

When House looked up, Wilson had his hand extended. "We can't fly to Princeton, and you love road trips. What's there to lose?"

House's lips slowly curled into a grin. "I do love the open road."


End file.
